


Only What Returns Love

by Malapropian



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Depression, F/M, Flashblacks, Food, Full Shift Werewolves, Gerard Argent's A+ parenting, Hermit Chris, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Non-Linear Flashbacks, Panic Attacks, Past Underage, Post Wild hunt, off screen animal death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2018-12-10 22:52:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11701542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malapropian/pseuds/Malapropian
Summary: When Chris goes to the woods, it is not to live deliberately or deep. He does not go to suck out all the marrow of life.When Chris goes to the woods, he goes to leave his old life behind him. All he wants to do is forget, but an unexpected reunion makes that impossible.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arabwel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arabwel/gifts).



> Ara, I hope you enjoy this story. It's a bit darker and more serious than I had planned. To be honest, I thought that I would write something else entirely, but this is what came out.
> 
> Many thanks to the usual suspects for all their help and encouragement. I couldn't have written this without you.

One day, he and Isaac walk through the busy streets of their latest home. Isaac is wearing a ridiculous scarf and tailored jacket. His peacock blue trousers emphasize the lean lines of his body and stop before his ankles. Random passersby stop to politely request pictures; they believe he’s a model, or maybe they simply find him beautiful and want to take a piece into themselves.

France has proven itself a good idea, a good place to learn and grow, to find themselves.

Chris feels expansive, ebullient. He can ignore the thought that nothing will last. It’s easier to overlook the prophesied doom he’s been hearing since putting Allison in the ground: you will always be alone and then you will die.

That night, Isaac won’t meet his eyes. He’s restless, _wolfish_ with his tossing head and tensing fingers, a hairsbreadth away from sprouting claws. 

They’re at the kitchen table when their brief idyll shatters. 

“You know Nicole wants me to run with them… join her pack.” Isaac stabs his perfectly black and blue steak and confesses, “I want to say yes.”

They argue over the meal, bloodless and civil.

In the end, Chris concedes. He says good night with Isaac’s final volley ringing in his ears.

“You seem to forget this, but I’m a fucking werewolf! I’m not Allison. I can’t—I won’t take her place, Chris. Not even for you.”

● ● ●

A week later, Chris takes his first step back on U.S. soil. He can’t say that he’s missed it, but he breathes in the dry air and hot asphalt with an aching relief. France had been a lull, an oasis of calm and beauty so distinct from his normal life that it could almost be a waking dream. This is what he knows.

He only has one carry-on, but the strap digs into his shoulder, heavier than it should be. There aren’t even any illegal firearms in his bag.

He’s not the same person who pulled a gun out of his SUV in a school parking lot, but no matter how distant that life seems, he can’t run from his past.

California always drags him back.

● ● ●

Sunset washes the woods in brilliant orange and red. Tall firs cast their long shadows over the modest cabin. The greying wood and green shutters blend into the surrounding mixed evergreen forest.

When Chris inhales, he can smell nearby laurel and terpenic woods. Not fire and wolfsbane. Not blood and cordite. This is the California he’s missed. He turns his face away from the south, from Beacon Hills, and walks up the gravel path. The crunch of rocks transitions to a heavy thud when he reaches the wooden deck.

By the door is a weathered, black mailbox which reveals a sealed envelope addressed “To Our Friend”—handwritten with no stamp. Chris scans the directions and memorizes the security code to his new home. He’ll destroy them later.

The box beeps its acceptance at him after he punches in the code. Chris reaches for the gun he’s not wearing and sighs, scrubs a tired hand over his long stubble. He turns the knob and nudges the door open with a steel-toed boot.

The door swings wide without a sound. He’ll have to fix that too. For now, he busies himself with clearing every room of the house, not that he expects trouble. For that matter, he’s not entirely sure what he’ll do if anything does jump out at him, but he was born an Argent. They’ve never needed guns to be dangerous.

He finds no monsters in the cabinet or the shower stall. There are no dragons hiding behind the grey couch or a cheerful yellow bedskirt.

It’s exactly as promised. How unexpected.

He looses a rusty chuckle and drops the bag from his shoulder. Maybe he’s the dragon now.

Further investigation yields a stocked pantry, just as he’s requested, so dinner will be easy enough after he ignites the pilot light. If he even bothers with cooking.

There’s a TV, an entire entertainment center, but Chris ignores it. The only sound to accompany his meal is the clink and slide of cutlery on china as he eats buttered bread and cold, sliced ham.

When he lies down that night, the thought pounds at him. Why why why? He’s only an hour away from Beacon Hills, staying close enough to pour salt in the wound, but far enough for false comfort. Why do this to himself? He could have gone anywhere, reinvented himself a hundred times over. He could have become a teacher or a pastry chef—even a used car salesman like he had joked with Victoria.

Anything but this.

Since Victoria died— _killed herself_ —there’s been a stone in his throat, drifting deeper and deeper with every new loss. It’s been taking its time on the way down. 

Chris stares at the ceiling fan as it slices through the air above him. As a child, he’d once confessed to the irrational fear that they would tumble free in the night, cutting him to pieces—such an ignoble way to die. It had taken his father weeks to break him of his fear. Now Chris admires the spin of shadowy blades. He counts every second that passes without incident, wondering what else he has left to sacrifice.

Somewhere after two thousand, his lids grow heavy, but the seconds don’t stop and neither does the fan. What if it falls the instant he closes his eyes? He bargains with himself. Make it to thirty-six hundred—a whole hour. Make it that long, and then he can sleep.

If he makes it that long, will he feel the stone hit bottom?

● ● ●

Every morning, he wakes to quiet steps on the deck. When he checks the mailbox, it contains the newspaper. Occasionally, there are junk ads or messages from his landlord. Every three days, he receives a grocery delivery, including MRE’s he doesn’t need. If he leaves the boxes to sit too long, he’ll find the marks of animals thwarted by the technologies of tape and plastic.

Chris solves the crossword during lunch. The junk he tosses. The messages he reads and then burns at his stove—a habit he can’t shake. The groceries he puts away. The MRE’s pile up in the office.

He should be more curious about who delivers the mail, but he seems to have spent all the paranoia on his arrival. Besides, he’s paying enough for privacy and convenience to trust it, for now.

It’s not that he’s stopped caring about what happens to him. It’s that he never has, and he’s fresh out of people to protect.

● ● ●

Chris opens his eyes to bright sun. Nearby, sharp claws scrabble on wood. A glance outside tells him that it’s mid-morning, hours after the delivery. He scratches absently over his stomach and trails up his chest.

“I suppose this has gone on long enough.”

The animals grow bolder and bolder with each grocery drop off. Last night, the coyotes had howled and yipped for hours, stirring up a riotous chorus in his backyard.

Chris sighs and swings his legs off the mattress. He hates waking up early, always has. He’d only done it so long out of duty and honor. _The price of greatness is responsibility._

In another life, the rich scent of coffee would have permeated the house by now. Someone else would have started the machine as a kindness to him.

Now, it’s only Chris in a tight pair of black boxer briefs, stumbling to the kitchen. He turns on the electric kettle and throws a careless handful of beans into the grinder. A few seconds of pulsing result in a rough, fragrant grind: too coarse for anything but the press.

Chris stops, confused with himself. He hasn’t used a French press in years, not since college, not since Peter had first shown him. _Peter._ His brow furrows at the strange thought. How long has it been since he’s even thought of Peter? With little consideration, Chris shrugs off the mental tangent and accepts what his auto-pilot has done.

He drinks the viscous brew, black with no sugar—another relic from his past. It’s strong and smooth but far too bitter for his tastes. 

Though once, he had tried to play the part of the hard bitten noir hero who lived on black coffee and unfiltered cigarettes. 

_“As requested: one black coffee, straight from the French press!” Peter presented it to him with a flourish and sat on the couch, crowding close. “You’re such a poser. You take more sugar than anyone else I know.”_

_Chris grinned and stretched, showing off his shirtless physique. “Maybe I’m trying to stay in shape for all that college sex I’m supposed to be having.”_

_Peter sniffed and stood up. “If that’s the case, then I can go. I’m sure I have some homework that needs doing.”_

_“Aww, baby. Don’t be like that.” Chris snagged Peter’s arm and pulled him back down. “You know you’re the only sugar I need.”_

_“That’s the corniest thing I’ve ever heard.”_

_“It’s true,” he insisted. “Scout’s honor.”_

_“Hmph. You were never a scout, and you smell like an ashtray.” Peter crossed his arms, but his body swayed closer in spite of his irritation._

_“Still don’t believe me?” Chris wrapped his hands around Peter’s thighs and lifted, maneuvering the lean teenager into his lap. Blue eyes stared back at him, interest lurking behind the irritation_

_“I’m still mad at you.”_

_Chris nuzzled his throat, grazing his teeth against the vulnerable tendons of Peter’s throat. “Are you?”_

_“Furious,” Peter said with a shaking voice._

_“Hey now.” Chris kissed him behind the ear. “You’re my favorite.” He nipped at the artery, eliciting a sharp, breathy whine, and eased one hand down the back of Peter’s boxers. “You’re the sweetest.” His fingers slid through the leftover lube and cum. “My jailbait boyfriend.”_

Chris hadn’t finished the coffee that day. It had spilled all over the carpet, staining badly enough that his parents scolded him for reverting to sloppy, civilian behavior at the first opportunity. Later, Peter had made him another cup and walked him through each step. 

Before marrying Victoria, he’d told her that he only liked coffee that could double as dessert. She’d laughed and swore to change his mind.

The coffee, so smooth a moment ago, now chokes him. His throat spasms around the lump in his throat. He dumps it down the drain and throws the press into the trash.

He doesn’t need mementos of his worst mistakes when he has the once-faded memories of them, blooming, fully-formed in his mind once more. 

Those memories are years in the past. It’s been so long since he’s tripped over these treacherous, _intrusive_ thoughts. They shouldn’t hurt so much now. He shouldn’t still feel the bruise, and yet he does. One of the first scars on his heart, and raw and open like it had happened yesterday.

Chris rushes through his shower and skips right over shaving. In a few minutes, he’s dressed and out the door. If he lingers at the display of hunting bows, then at least he blends in with the local shoppers. No one gives him a second glance: he’s just another camper with too much facial hair.

Several hours later, Chris returns with his spoils, used up and exhausted by the simple act of speaking with cashiers. Still, he takes care to lay out his supplies on the table, everything in readiness for tomorrow’s work.

At the sink, he eats a bowl of cereal with a sliced banana. He rinses his dishes and stacks them in the dishwasher he can only fill every three days.

That night, Chris lies in bed, staring at the ceiling fan. The coyotes howl, but his dreams are full of wolves.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s strange to hunt such small game, and it’s not even really hunting. He’s just driving off vermin.

_Think of it like pest control, Chris. We serve the greater good._

In a matter of minutes, he secures his trash bins with cinder blocks and bungee cord. With the nearest neighbors miles away, Chris can install his new motion-sensing floodlights without any guilt. 

He takes a brief pleasure in adjusting distance ranges and choosing the best field of view for each sensor, precisely angling each one until he’s satisfied.

Establishing a perimeter with the predator urine takes slightly more effort, but Chris soon finds himself pushing the last stake in the ground, wishing that his distractions weren’t at an end.

Hunting had never been this easy.

After an afternoon of futile attempts to entertain himself, Chris eats another sub-par meal, then goes to bed. He’s awake for hours, listening to a soft tap-tap-tapping on the porch. 

“It’s nothing,” he soothes himself. “Just branches on the roof.” He shoves a pillow over his head, so he can’t see the still trees on a windless night. He breathes in and out, deep and slow—like he’s been taught.

Chris itches for a gun, but he’s stopped sleeping with them in easy reach. _Ever since France._ He’s supposed to be starting over, and how can he forget his past if he clings to the trappings of his old life?

A better question is: how can he start a new life if he can’t sleep? 

Chris tosses and turns for half an hour before he compromises. He throws back the blanket and stalks to the dresser. The second drawer from the top contains a small selection of fixed and folding knives. He usually wears these on his belt or in a boot, but he plucks one out and takes it back to bed with him, like a child in need of the comfort object he’d never owned.

_Hunters don’t need toys to feel safe, Chris._

Carefully, placing the knife under the empty pillow next to him, Chris wraps up his worry into a tiny box and buries it at the back of his mind. He touches the carbon steel. The tension bleeds out of him like poison from a wound, and eventually, the _tap tap tap_ lulls him into an uneasy sleep.

● ● ●

Chris opens his front door, unprepared for the sight that greets him. He frowns at the boxes.

For once, his grocery delivery is pristine, unmarred by any marks of tooth or claw, but laid out on the porch steps are the dispenser stakes he’d planted yesterday.

At a glance, it looks like all twelve of the stakes are on his front porch. His frown deepens.

“I guess that explains the noise last night.” Chris shakes his head and brings in his groceries. He doesn’t know what’s going on, not yet, but he can make a few educated guesses.

For breakfast, Chris breaks out the pans and indulges in an omelette. He toasts some of the fresh bread instead of letting it go to waste. When hunger pangs hit him in the late afternoon, he doesn’t ignore them. Instead, he ventures to the kitchen where he makes a fresh pot of coffee while he contemplates dinner.

Chris roasts a whole mackerel with olive oil and lemon. The garlic cloves melt in his mouth in a burst of pungent flavor, and he’s eager to chase the tender fish with lemon and spinach. Sun-dried tomato and goat cheese make an excellent accompaniment to the crusty bread. He’d begun to forget that there’s pleasure in food, in caring for his physical body. It isn’t merely part of the rote of daily living, a necessary step to ensure a strong and capable body, but another road to joy, in and of itself.

He’ll do better from now on, Chris promises himself as he sits in the living room recliner, preparing for a sleepless night. His fingers clench around the knife in his hand. In the distance, he hears occasional thumps and a shrill, whistling chirrup. 

Somewhere, a wolf howls. No one answers it.

● ● ●

He doesn’t know whether it’s sound or instinct that wakes him, but he slides seamlessly from sleep into full consciousness. His hand cramps from clutching the knife all night. It’s the struggle of a few minutes to force his fingers to uncurl, one by one, before he’s free to set it down on the end table.

Chris quietly pads to the front door, every nerve and sinew primed with heady anticipation. He unbolts the door and swings it open. When he looks at the porch, he steadies himself against the thrill of danger. The sweet rush of adrenaline washes away the dullness of mundane life. 

A whole family of raccoons have been piled up by his door, reeking of piss—wolf piss unless he’s missed the mark. Thoughtfully, his gifter has avoided soiling the welcome mat, but Chris will need to rinse off the wood anyway.

The furry bodies aren’t savaged or torn open. No ripped stomachs, emptied of choice bits of organ. These are neat, almost clean despite the fang marks on necks and tiny, crushed heads.

No, these are the finest gift and offer of friendship he can receive in some cultures: the corpses of his enemies laid at his feet.

Chris sighs. There’s only one person, one wolf, who would do this for him. Even after all this time.

“Don’t expect me to thank you, Peter. And you can dispose of the raccoons too.”

He slams the door and leans against it, scrubbing a tired hand over his face. Rough patches of beard drag at his callouses. In certain dreams, he relives that moment, feels the rebar sliding through his stomach, but remembering the past isn’t a nightmare. It’s the so-called harmless dreams of things that never were. Little embroideries of the past, twisted to suit his fantasies—those are what have the power to undo him.

_Now you rest here a while. You’ve had a hard time, for a very long time._

Those insidious words wind through his dreams, in different times and scenarios. What he would have given, once, to have Peter, Victoria, his father say those words to him and mean it.

Chris mutters, “You’ll have to do more than kill some raccoons if you want absolution.”

A new lightness fills him, after drawing his line in the sand; and however he feels about Peter, at least he knows that he’ll be safe enough with a maybe-friendly werewolf on the property. Chris shoves away from the door and marches into his bedroom. 

He strips and climbs into bed, and the moment his head touches the pillow, he’s out like a light.

● ● ●

_Chris must have done something good in his last life because the prettiest boy at Synergy was currently clinging to him and grinding against his dick._

_He bit softly at the softly curving neck, admiring the way red bloomed and faded on skin. “I’m Chris,” he said above the pounding bass. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”_

_The pretty boy’s head lolled back to blink at him, eyes flashing under the club’s lights. “Peter.” His lashes dropped and he gave Chris a slow, syrupy smile. “Chris, I think my friends ditched me for Kaos.”_

_Chris tugged him closer, slipping one hand up Peter’s loose shirt to toy with his hard nipples. “Is that so?”_

_“Uh huh,” Peter gasped. “Wanna get out of here and… talk?”_

_“Come on.” Chris grinned and dropped his hand off of Peter’s shirt to grab his wrist, his suspiciously bracelet-free wrist. “Let’s go back to my place.”_

_Peter laughed, bright and giddy, as he pressed himself against Chris, molding the lines of their bodies together. “Lead the way.”_

● ● ●

Chris wakes to the smell of cigarettes and the potent taste of cheap beer and Peter Hale in his mouth, coating the back of his throat. If he closes his eyes again, he can almost feel that younger version of Peter, pressing close and whining—always asking for more touch, more pleasure, more love. Through some quirk of memory and dream, he’s called up a phantom: a perfect reconstruction of that sensory feast from the night they first met.

It’s never felt so lonely to wake up in bed with the right side empty and cold. The stark pain of bereavement had been dulled by duty, an acceptance born of the understanding that there was always a price to hunting monsters.

It says something, maybe, that his dreams of Victoria don’t leave him waking with the taste of her in his mouth. He doesn’t hear sweet nothings echoing in his ears. Though perhaps, that is simply due to his late wife being far too restrained and dignified to indulge in that type of softness. Chris had been the vulnerable one, yielding to Victoria Napier’s implacable will and endless ambition, to the offer that had been far too tempting to pass up.

_The summer swelter pressed down on the two hunters, teetering on the edge of too humid as dusk approached._

_“It’s coming,” Victoria breathed out, her mouth shaping the nearly silent words. Her hands were rock-steady on the rifle as she peered into the scope._

_Chris’s skin prickled as a howl rent the night, audible despite the earplugs he wore. He stood guard beside her, listening for an answering howl. Their prey was supposed to be a simple omega, and there had been no signs of a pack in this community. But these creatures had a way of defying expectations._

_Like Peter. Never forget. They could hide anywhere, even in your best friend or lover, but their true nature would always out._

_Filthy snakes in the grass._

_And what, whispered his traitor brain, had Peter done but try to love you in his own imperfect way? He was just a boy._

_A boy who would grow to turn on him. A boy who could only ever become a vicious beast._

_Like the one he and Victoria were hunting._

_The shot rang out, thankfully muffled to their human ears. A rush of wings and paws surrounded them, as woodland animals struck out for safer territory._

_Chris fished the plugs out of his ears and pocketed them. He cocked an eyebrow at Victoria and smirked, extending his hand. “Good shooting, Vicky.”_

_With narrowed eyes, she nodded coolly, regal as a queen despite lying in the dirt. She held the glare for long seconds before finally taking his hand in a firm grasp and rising to her feet, rifle in her other hand._

_“Thanks, Argent.” Victoria glanced sideways at him, lips quirking into a half-smile. “Good job standing around.”_

_“Aww, Napier. Don’t be like that.” He grinned at her. “Argent men are soldiers, and good soldiers follow their generals.” Chris leaned in, close enough for her red hair to brush his face. He breathed in deeply, inhaling the sharp scent of freshly crushed pine needles and, beneath that, the peroxide she used to eliminate scent._

_“And are you?”_

_The question took him off guard. Victoria had always firmly rebuffed his idle flirtation and his more serious advances. She had, in fact, told him straight to his face, that she wouldn’t be just another one of his flings. She was a professional and here to do a job, and he’d respect that or else._

_Chris had never met anyone like her before, with her utter conviction that she could change reality and the courage to act. Victoria Napier was a hard woman, bright and sharp like her favorite knife, and Chris couldn’t help but want to impress her._

_“I am for my family. I go where they send me and do my duty,” he replied cautiously, picking his way through dense underbrush._

_“Really, Argent?” She snorted. “You’re going to be coy now, after chasing me across three states and pushing your way into half of my hunts?”_

_“Fine. I could be your good soldier. If you wanted.”_

_“I’m a far cry from a general,” Victoria muttered, a touch of her hated mountain twang coloring her voice. She glanced at him again, a question burning in her eyes. “But I know a guy who could help me with that. What do you say?”_

_“I thought you hated me.”_

_Her pretty lips twisted into a scowl. “I do. Damn cocky bastard. If you weren’t so pretty or good with a gun, then I’d have no use for you, Argent.”_

_Chris chuckled. “Good to know that you’re not possessed. I was worried for a second.”_

_“I’m serious though. You’re an Argent from the main line. You could use someone like me to keep your father off the throne, so to speak. He’d run the family into the ground with his psychotic fanaticism.”_

_“And you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart, are you?” Chris laughed then, louder than he should have. “You won’t even call me Chris.”_

_She put a slim hand on his arm and stopped him. “Chris then. Is that what it’ll take?” Victoria’s lips curved up in a secretive, little smile. “Just think of how much he’ll hate you marrying a no-account bastard of no-account hunters.”_

_“Yeah, and?” He exhaled hard through his nose. “Be serious, Victoria. That’s a big leap from never giving me the time of day to an offer to leave your family and cleave to your husband’s.”_

_“I’m absolutely serious, Chris. You’re not the same, and you haven’t been for the last year.”_

_Chris sucked in a breath. He couldn’t. He refused to say._

_“Did he take something from you, Chris?” She pressed at his faultlines with delicate precision._

_What had his father not taken? That would be a much shorter and easier answer._

_“I can’t give it back to you, whatever it is,” Victoria continued, barrelling through his silence, “but I can give you this. The best revenge is living well, and we’ll do that and more. We’ll take over. We’ll run every wolf out of California.” Her pale blue eyes nearly glowed with her intensity, at the sheer exultation in her declaration._

_The bruised and tender part of him whimpered at the idea of no more wolves—no more Peter—but he took that self and buried it deep. It was long past time to put away childish things._

_“When we have children,” he paused, wrapping his fingers around hers and squeezing hard, “they won’t be like this. Like us.”_

_For a moment, her face softened, and her eyes went dewy wet with moisture; but it was there and gone with a blink of her eyes. “I promise.”_

_“Well then, Vicky,” he drawled. “You’ll be a general before you know it.”_

_Then she slid into place, easy as could be, angling her face up to meet his lips. Victoria kissed like she hunted, slow and thorough, conquering everything in her path through the sheer force of her presence._

_With a final soft nip, she eased back, smiling against his mouth. “We’re wasting daylight, soldier. That body isn’t going to cut itself in half, you know.”_

_“Yes, ma’am.”_

And his father _had_ despised it. Gerard had hated their union and Victoria’s methods, her plans, viciously protesting and fomenting unsubtle rebellion until they’d seen no recourse but to remove him from their personal lives. That choice had caused a divide in their family that lasted until Kate’s death, and his return had set so many terrible things in motion.

In a cruel irony worthy of the man himself, Chris could choose to lay the downfall of the Argent’s hunting dynasty squarely on Gerard’s shoulders, and he does choose. This is hardly the revenge Victoria had promised him, but it’s the only sweetness left to him.

His internal clock suggests that it must be around four p.m., but the shadows in the room give lie to that guess. The huge digital clock numbers confirm that. It’s already past six. He’s been asleep for a solid ten hours. With a long, uncomfortable stretch that strains his calf almost to the point of cramping, Chris throws back the thin sheet that’s tangled around his legs—the lone survivor of his restless sleep.

Chris forces himself out of bed to splash cold water on his face and brush his teeth. For good measure, he follows that up with a quick swish of mouthwash. He’s groggy from sleeping through the day, but the intense minty burn cuts through some of the fog.

Real clothes are too much trouble, and there’s no one to see him. It’s just Chris here. Chris and the wolf he won’t acknowledge.

Though it seems, from the rhythmic thump of a heavy tail on on his porch, that Peter refuses to let that stand for long.

_Thump. Thump._

He heads to the kitchen to rummage in the fridge, but the thought of cheese-rich onion soup turns his stomach. Not even the homey comfort of fresh, salted radish and butter tempts him. He tries to ignore the itch creeping up his spine, settling between his shoulder blades. It’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you, lurking in your yard. 

Is it his imagination, or can he hear a soft, occasional whuff punctuating the wagging tail?

Chris turns on the TV. He flips through the guide before settling on a Lord of the Rings marathon. Slowly, the longest and most effective advertising campaign for beautiful New Zealand distracts him from the wolf at the door, and by the time Éomer and the Rohirrim return to save Rohan, he’s asleep again, the remote dangling between nerveless fingers.

● ● ●

Chris ventures outside long enough to retrieve his groceries. All traces of the raccoons have vanished, to be replaced with a little, brown rabbit corpse. He kicks the door closed. He doesn’t talk to Peter this time.

He’s a hunter of the Argent line. Chris understands waiting long enough to be the last one standing.

● ● ●

The wolf in the woods refuses to leave no matter how much Chris ignores him.

He’s filled the past week with background noise from the TV, even going so far as to put his phone in the dock to play music while he’s in the kitchen. 

It doesn’t work. 

Chris picks out Peter’s indistinct grey outline with unerring accuracy. When Peter lingers on the porch, Chris finds himself breathing in time with the soft thump.

Yes, he rejects the animals, the offers of restitution and sustenance, but each night he slides into dreams—memories of their past together. Chris grabs at the edged comfort in his memories and rests easier knowing the nature of the monster stalking him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been written the entire time, but I got so busy that I didn't have time to post. :/
> 
> I'm super sorry for the delay, especially since this is the last complete chapter I have, and I'm not sure when I'll finish the next one.

It happens like this. On a morning no different from any of the others since Peter came, when Chris opens the door and scans the treeline, he smiles. It’s only the smallest lift of his lips, but he does it. 

Perhaps the difference is in his heart. Whatever the cause, Chris doesn’t immediately collect his things and shut the door. He returns to kneel down and examine the two dead pheasants. 

They look healthy. He runs his fingers over the feathers and gently picks one up. It’s surprisingly heavy. He picks up the other one and tells himself that it would be a waste to leave them out here.

Later, the stench of feathers in hot water fills the house. He plucks feathers to the quiet scritch and thump of Peter pacing back and forth. The rhythmic noise helps him fall into the mindless task, and the two bare birds are lying in the freshly cleaned sink before he remembers that the reek should have driven Peter off, at least for a while. 

The thought plagues him even as he applies himself to succulent pheasant and fresh vegetables.

Replete from a meal, Chris washes his dishes. He considers the remaining bird. The meat has already been stripped from the bones. He’d intended it for leftovers tomorrow. He should cover it and put away the leftovers, but there’s an impulse bubbling to the surface of his mind.

_Would it be so bad to share with Peter?_

Yes, he insists to himself. It would be a horrible, no-good thing. Werewolves, and Peter in particular, have only ever brought ruin to his house, _to him_. But something in him is still so helpless before Peter.

Perhaps it’s an Argent failing to be so weak as to want the company of wolves. It has already been the end to his mother and Allison. He can even count Kate among that number on a technicality.

What’s one more Argent?

His shoulders slump. Chris feels a terrible lightness as he finally gives in to the urge he’s been fighting for days.

Chris takes the plate of rotisseried pheasant and puts it at an empty place setting. He fidgets with the place mat and tugs it about until he forces himself to let go. Then he steels himself to walk to the front door.

It strikes him, as he turns the knob, that this is a monumentally stupid decision, but it’s too late. He’s committed himself to this plan of action, and there’s nothing left to do but ride the wave.

Chris stares down at the huge grey wolf, lying on his welcome mat. It’s unlike Peter to be in such sorry shape. The outline of his ribs shows through the tangled, mud-streaked fur.

What a pair they make.

Unmoving, the wolf stares at him with dark eyes.

“I thought,” Chris’s throat seizes from disuse, and he coughs before starting over. “I thought you might be hungry, so you can come in if you want.”

For a moment, nothing happens, and the absurdity of the situation crashes in on Chris. Then the wolf gives him a canine grin, complete with lolling tongue, and heaves himself to his feet. Peter brushes his paws off on the mat and lopes past Chris, tail waving high in the air.

He follows without a word. Peter hasn’t changed back, but can Chris handle the sight of human Peter here and now? Peter in his cabin. Peter eating his food. Peter wearing his clothes after shifting back.

His chest tightens. No. It’s better this way. He can almost pretend that this is just a stray dog.

Gerard had never let him have a dog.

Beside the table, Peter sits back on his haunches and casts a look back at Chris. He doesn’t seem impatient, not yet.

Chris sets the plate down on the floor, “Don’t make a mess.”

Peter huffs loudly at that and turns to the plate. He eats in quick, delicate mouthfuls, flashing dangerously sharp teeth with each bite. At the end of his meal, he licks the plate without shame.

It shouldn’t fill Chris with reluctant warmth.

“Well,” he mutters, “I don’t know what you plan to do or why you’re here, but as long as you stay shifted and don’t cause trouble, you can stay inside for a few days.” 

Peter tips his head and whines in question. He doesn’t move closer or try to touch Chris.

Chris laughs without much humor. “Stay or don’t, Peter. You’ve always done exactly what you wanted.”

The wolf nods regally. Some facts can’t be altered, and Peter’s casual entitlement is one of them. Even this tiny glimmer of Peter’s former arrogance makes his heart ache with fondness. 

All at once, the words and energy drain out of him. Chris sighs. “Good night.”

Behind his locked door, Chris strains to hear into the other rooms. His nerves jump at every little thing, but eventually his brain gives it up for a lost cause and settles. It’s fine, nothing to worry about. It’s just Peter Hale in his house, prowling around, putting his wolf stink on everything.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, half-asleep. “Everything’s fine.”

● ● ●

_“You have a lot of bad dreams don’t you?” Peter cocked his head, keeping himself out of arm’s reach like he knew exactly how badly Chris reacted to being touched upon waking._

_Chris shook his head, roughly scrubbing at his face before dropping back onto his pillow. “Yeah. I’m a restless sleeper.” He shrugged. “It’s just one of those things. My dad hates it.”_

_Peter snorted but scooted closer. “According to you, your dad hates everything.”_

_“I’d laugh, but where’s the lie?”_

_The frown on Peter’s face tugged at his emotions, and Chris sighed. He’d never meant to fall for the mouthy kid, but here he was: having feelings when Peter was sad. Fuck, he had it so bad._

_“My sister is kind of like that. She doesn’t hate me or anything, but she thinks I’m irresponsible and bratty. Calls me a heedless puppy.” Peter’s lip curled. “She always treats me like one of her kids instead of her brother. She loves me, but she wants to run my life. As you can imagine, we don’t get along very well.”_

_“You are a brat.” Chris smirked at Peter. “But you’re my brat.”_

_“Asshole. See if I try to show empathy for your problems again.”_

_“Aww. Don’t be like that,” Chris groaned and rolled over, letting Peter swat him a few times with his pillow. He could be a generous boyfriend._

_Breathless from dire threats and laughter, Peter crashed down beside him, burrowing under Chris’s arm and tangling their legs together. “Your dad is a humongous dickweasel. He should appreciate you more. You’re… you’re really great, Chris.”_

_They haven’t said “I love you”, not yet, but with every day, they got a little closer to those words. Chris had lost count of how many times they’d almost slipped out this weekend, and he swallowed them down again._

_“I like that you’re a brat. It keeps me on my toes.”_

_Peter beamed at him, easily pleased by small, strange things. It made Chris want to keep him spoiled and happy, so he smiled and added, “You’re really great too.”_

_“Of course I am.” Peter sniffed wetly, and Chris politely overlooked his possible tears. The Bro Code was sacred, even if you were dating, maybe especially if you were dating._

_“And so modest too.”_

_“Jerk.”_

_The cuddled together, enjoying the quiet intimacy of the moment._

_Peter cleared his throat. “You know… if you ever wanted to talk about your dreams. You could tell me.”_

_“Oh yeah?” Chris pulled Peter closer, nuzzling at the slope of his shoulder._

_“I mean,” he squeaked as Chris started nibbling his collarbone. “I’m just saying I wouldn’t mind. If you did.”_

_Chris imagined a world where he could tell his sweet, human boyfriend about the things he’d seen and done as an Argent. One where he could explain what it was to grow up with a calling to protect humans from the dark. How he sometimes dreamed of blood and all the creatures he’d been sent to kill. Peter would never look at him the same way. He’d probably never let Chris touch him again. But maybe if they were together long enough. Or if Peter fell far enough in love with him that he’d stay anyway. Maybe Peter would be one of those who’d take to the life… and that was a dream worth having._

_“Maybe I will one day.”_

● ● ●

Before opening his eyes, Chris turns over. When he thinks, _So the wolf didn’t kill me_ , he doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or relieved.

After his stressful night, he’s not sure how he’s managed to sleep in until ten o' clock, but the red numbers of the clock glare at him in accusation. Unless Chris is willing to entertain the idea that Peter crept around the house, changing all the clocks, then he must accept the proof of his senses—even though it would be easier on him if Peter had lived down to expectations.

Chris frowns, his conscience pricked by that train of thought. He pads softly to the door and opens it just enough to peek out. His eyes zoom in on the huge wolf, occupying his couch. Satisfied with his findings, he sighs. The slight noise attracts Peter’s attention, and as the huge grey head swings around, he shuts the door with a click. 

A vague sense of guilt stirs, but he presses it down. It’s just the reflexive feeling from seeing a disappointed dog face.

Feeling every day of his age, Chris strips his boxers on the way to the shower. He fiddles with the tap and wastes no time stepping into the spray; he flinches as cold water sluices over him. 

There had been a time when he expected only good things from Peter. It seems like yesterday, but decades and distrust and violence stand between that time and now.

On the one hand, Peter had replaced the predator urine with his own, marking this place as his territory. He’d killed the raccoons and brought presents. 

On the other hand, he’d killed humans—killed Kate—but only as retaliation. Later was harder to justify. Conspiracy. Betrayal. Rebar through the stomach. Maybe there are no justifications for some of those things.

Chris strokes the exit scar. It’s an ugly circle of puckered skin. Some days it aches for no discernible reason, but as scars go, he’s had worse. He’s left worse, and Chris no longer feels comfortable throwing stones from his fragile glass house, not when he knows how easily it shatters.

What stands out to him now is that Peter had every opportunity to kill or hurt him last night. As isolated as Chris is, no one would have known for days. And yet, here they are: at the beginning of an uneasy truce. 

He’s not a hunter anymore. He’s not the judge, jury, and executioner—what’s more is that he doesn’t want to be. Whether or not Peter should be redeemed, or if he even wants it, isn’t up to Chris. Last night, he told Peter a few days, but what about after those days? Will he extend the offer or drive him off?

Uselessly, he wonders, _What would Allison decide?_

But he doesn’t know what Allison would have chosen. He’ll never know because his daughter is dead before her time. If she were here today, then she’d make her choice with Victoria’s burning certainty. With more time and seasoning, she would have grown into a fine leader—the best they’d ever had.

Chris tips his face into the water, now hot enough to scald. 

But that was then. This is now. The reality Chris faces is this: they’re both gone, and he’s the only one left who can make this decision. The only one who’s left to be impacted by it if Peter’s all the way out here.

Chris rubs his chest, pressing into the muscles over his heart. The Peter Thing is complicated when he lets himself think about it. They have too much past, and a lot of it is no good. He still doesn’t know if he’s forgiven Peter for any of it—even the first understandable “betrayal”. He doesn’t know if Peter deserves forgiveness, but that doesn’t seem to matter when Chris imagines sending Peter away.

What would he do if Peter ever decided to leave these woods and haunt someone else? He refuses to find out.

“I guess you can stay then. As long as you want.” Chris raises his voice above the pounding water. “Did you hear that? Stay or go, Peter. It’s up to you.”

There’s no response from the living room, not that Chris can hear.

Peter will be there when he comes out. Chris knows it like he knows himself, like he’s known all along what he would decide. He hangs his head.

Chris Argent is many things, but at heart, he’s the same boy who would lie in bed every night, crushed by the weight of his own thoughts. He hates the oppressive solitude of the cabin, but as much as he hates being alone, Peter hates it even more.

● ● ●

_When his second story window rattled, Chris jolted awake, immediately reaching under the mattress, where he’d stashed his gun. His fingers closed on the grip just as the window slid up enough for someone to slither inside the room._

_“Chris,” hissed Peter. “Are you awake?”_

_“I am now,” Chris said. He took his hand off the gun and sat up._

_“Sorry.”_

_“What the hell, babe? It’s past three in the morning.”_

_With the full moon’s light, Chris could see Peter wince in vivid detail. “I really am sorry.”_

_Chris sighed. “You might as well explain in the damn bed.” He lifted the covers, not missing the way Peter smirked as Chris revealed bare skin. “Get in, you lunatic.”_

_Peter wasted no time shucking his clothes off and wrapping himself around Chris._

_“I thought you said you couldn’t sleep over for another week?”_

_“Talia decided to go on a trip at the last minute. She took the kids with her too.”_

_“So you thought you’d come over at three in the morning to visit? Pull the other one, Peter. How’d you even get out here? You don’t have a license.”_

_“I walked close enough to town to hitch a ride.”_

_Chris stiffened. “You did what?”_

_Peter sniffed. “Did I fucking stutter?”_

_“I can’t. You’re impossible.” Chris lifted Peter’s face from his chest. “That was stupid and dangerous. Promise me you won’t do it again. Fucking call me. I don’t care what time it is. Call me, and I will get you. Even from your damn house. I will admit that I’m fucking a teenager if it means you won’t do it again.”_

_“It was fine. It’s not the first time I’ve done it.”_

_“Baby. Promise me.”_

_“Fine.” Peter pulled his chin from Chris’s grasp and sulked. “Are you done with the scolding, daddy?”_

_Chris brought his hand down on Peter’s ass with a sharp clap. “Don’t call me daddy unless you want a spanking.”_

_Peter wiggled underneath his hand. “What if I do?” he asked, soft and sultry. Clearly angling to distract Chris from asking anymore questions._

_Unfortunately for Peter, Chris was wise to his ways._

_“Baby, why did you decide to come out this late? Why were you even awake?”_

_Peter groaned as though he was being tortured and buried his face in Chris’s neck. “I told you. Everyone was gone.”_

_“And?”_

_“Ugh. Don’t make me say it, you asshole.” One of Peter’s hands drifted down and to the side, lingering at his hip like he didn’t have any intentions of trying to touch Chris’s dick and get him hard._

_Chris rolled his eyes and grabbed Peter’s wrists, rolling them so Chris was on top. He stared down at Peter’s face, half in shadow from this angle. “You’re the one who came to my apartment and woke me up at ass o’ clock in the morning, so you can tell me why.”_

_“Fine.” Peter blew out his breath. “I don’t like being alone in the house. It’s too quiet. As annoying as they all are, I’m used to everyone being around.” Dropping his voice, Peter murmured, “It’s not the same now that Mom’s gone.”_

_“Babe,” Chris said helplessly. This wasn’t something he could fix or a monster he could kill._

_“So… I couldn’t sleep. Just couldn’t stop thinking. It’s usually fine, but I guess it’s the full moon crazy.”_

_“So what? Are you a werewolf now?” Chris released his wrists and laughed. “Should I be afraid for my safety?”_

_Peter wrinkled his nose. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’d never hurt you. You’re like my north star. My port in storm. Umm,” Peter paused, searching for more similes._

_Chris played along with him. “Am I your anchor?”_

_Peter’s mouth dropped open in surprise before he beamed up at Chris. “That’s it,” he breathed. “You’re my anchor.”_

_“Well this anchor thinks it’s time to go the fuck to sleep.”_

_“Spoilsport. I’m declaring my lifelong love and devotion and you shush me.”_

_“Good night, babe.” Chris rolled off of him, and Peter snuggled into his side._

_“I’m only saying good night under protest.”_

_“And I’ll make it up to you as long as you sleep.”_

_“I expect good morning blowjobs.”_

_“Yes, dear.”_

_“And coffee—no, breakfast!”_

_“Peter.”_

_“All right, yes. Going to sleep now.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wasn't beta'd by anyone except for me. Let me know if I missed any errors or even just how you felt about the chapter. :p Either way.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://dialmformaledictions.tumblr.com).


	4. Chapter 4

Peter the wolf makes a startlingly decent roommate. It surprises Chris after his previous experiences with a bratty, teenager invading his apartment and his life without any apologies.

Chris can measure the drift of years in the way that Peter moves around him like Chris is the dangerous one. It’s in every instance when he carefully shows deference to Chris: anything from meals to entering rooms and furniture rights. This new Peter never ventures near the bedroom Chris has claimed for himself. His grey coat is no longer muddy, but in keeping with Chris’s demand, the man has contrived to shift and shower when he isn’t around to witness it.

But the Peter he remembers is still alive. His urge to be the center of the universe is subtler as a wolf, but it’s unmistakable. He’s so present in the house, unobtrusively following him from room to room. Chris sees young Peter in the way he can take up so much space without moving or making a sound, pressing in on Chris and stealing the air from the room. 

It’s been twenty years, and even now, as a wolf, Chris is bewildered by Peter’s charisma. He’s a lodestone perfectly calibrated to draw Chris’s attention no matter the situation or their surroundings.

It’s unfair how much of Chris wants to forget everything they’ve done to each other.

● ● ●

Chris thrashes in bed, throwing himself out of his nightmare and into full consciousness. The sheets tangle around his legs, constricting his movements. _Trapped again. Like a worm on a hook._ His heart speeds its wild gallop, the muscle working overtime. Sharp and heavy and throbbing all at once: it hurts unbelievably. He clutches his chest with tingling fingers, clawing at the skin like he could pull his heart out. Anything would be better. He wonders, _Is this what dying feels like?_

He pants harshly, unable to catch his breath, not even to laugh at the ridiculous irony of Chris Argent, last hunter of his name, dying in bed from a heart attack. 

_I win, old man. You didn’t kill us all._

Awareness of his surroundings filters back in when the door shakes in its frame, reverberating from some unseen force. It continues to thud, interspersed with loud whines and snarls. Chris lays back, sucking in frantic breaths, immensely relieved that Peter’s out there and worried.

Suddenly, the knob turns, and a flash of grey fur shoves open the door to leap on the bed, nimbly landing on the empty side.

A cold, wet nose nudges firmly at his neck. Peter whines, prancing in place, unsure of his welcome.

Chris lifts trembling fingers to pat clumsily at Peter’s face. “Even now,” he gasps. “Even now you listened.”

Peter turns his face to lick at Chris’s wrist. The hot, wet tongue rasps over his skin, licking away Chris’s cold sweat. Being able to tangle his fingers in Peter’s thick fur, having Peter here so obviously worried… it’s nice—almost like the dog he’d never been allowed to have.

Slowly, his breathing eases. The pain recedes, but it leaves him shaky and weak. Through it all, Peter stays.

“I guess I’m not dying.”

Peter noses at his sternum and sneezes once before laying his huge head on top of Chris. The wolf is big enough that even his head is enough to cover the span of his ribcage, and he welcomes the weight. The heat that Peter radiates is heavenly on his chilled skin. His extremities are still tingling and strange, like they belong on someone else’s body, but having a giant wolf lie down on him is exactly what Chris needs to feel grounded again.

“You know, I never woke up to panic attacks before I let you inside.”

Peter whines. He wriggles closer, burying even more of Chris beneath his bulk. He smells like Lever 2000 and dog.

Chris strokes Peter’s ears, barely brushing them with his fingertips. They’re like velvet, even softer than they look.

“You make it hard to remember I don’t trust you anymore.”

His ears droop under Chris’s hand. His whole body curls in on itself.

Chris sighs. “What am I supposed to do with you, Peter?”

With tension in every line of his body, Peter nudges his cold nose against Chris’s jaw and darts his tongue out, lapping at him delicately.

Chris freezes. His wrist. His neck. The significance isn’t lost on him. He knows what it means now. 

He should stop this. It would be simple. Peter’s ready to bolt at any sign that Chris disapproves. His ears swivel back and forth, and his back is stiff as he cowers against Chris.

But even when they’d been dating, when Peter had been a teenager, he had never seemed this vulnerable. 

Chris shuts his eyes and imagines it. He could shove Peter away and snap at him. Tell him to leave his room, his cabin, his whole life. 

It would feel like yelling at an abused dog. How does he always manage to turn things around in his favor?

“All right, then. All right.” Chris rests his hand on the back of Peter’s neck. He squeezes once. “Let’s just stay here for now.”

● ● ●

While washing the dishes, Chris hears the click of Peter’s nails on the hardwood floors. Peter stands behind him, quiet and still. Chris pays him no mind, just continues the mechanical act of passing the soapy sponge over dirty plates and placing them in the drying rack. His patience is rewarded when something drops onto his foot.

The slightly damp remote balances on his socked foot: an invitation if he’s ever seen one.

Bemused, Chris asks anyway, “Do you want to watch something with me?”

Regal and ridiculous, Peter nods his huge wolf head before bounding into the living room and leaping onto the couch. Chris doesn’t miss the fact that a giant werewolf is sprawled over his side of the couch, on top of his favorite throw, covering everything in his scent.

It means something, even this sort of secondhand scent-marking. It means something, and Chris is resolutely ignoring it. The werewolf in his living room is simply a huge dog. He’s just a pet. He’s not Peter Hale: spree killer, werewolf, and love of his young life.

In a few minutes, Chris will wipe the last dish and join the wolf on the couch. He’ll put on something mindless and fun. If he puts his hand on Peter’s head and strokes his ears, if Peter creeps into his lap, covering him with as much of his body as possible… 

It doesn’t need to mean anything.

Hours later, Chris wakes up. The TV is off, and the room is dark, but the last thing he recalls is a young couple making a terrible choice on their new backsplash. 

“Shhh,” a voice whispers close to his ear, and that’s when Chris’s groggy mind works out that he’s being carried. “Go back to sleep, Christopher.”

_Peter._ Of course. He must have fallen asleep during the Fixer Upper marathon. Chris squirms, testing Peter’s hold, and realizes that his cheek rests against bare skin.

“Are you naked?” he hisses.

Peter laughs again, louder this time. “I didn’t expect you to wake up. You were out like a proverbial light.”

His face heats. He hasn’t fallen asleep so easily in years, and no one has ever carried him to bed like this—not once he’d been old enough to remember.

Chris melts into the novel experience of being cradled by someone stronger. For this moment, he can imagine that he and Peter had never broken up. They’re a normal couple, and his partner is romantic and considerate enough to put him in bed after a night of HGTV.

He turns his face towards Peter’s chest, almost nuzzling the warm skin. It’s easy to close his eyes and enjoy the brief minute the trip takes. Peter still smells like Lever 2000 and wolf, and it adds to the illusion of domesticity.

When Peter places him on the bed, he does it gently, as though Chris is a treasure he can’t bear to part with. 

He stays silent, thoughtful as moonlight falls on Peter, illuminating the long lines of muscle stretched across his frame. The werewolf is too thin, too worn, a mirror to his wolf form, but Chris hadn’t been interested in the whys and wherefores. He’d only been concerned with the possibility of betrayal… and yet. Peter had still come to him, helping him through a panic attack.

His heart twists. There’s something wrong about seeing Peter so resigned, so ready for rejection.

Chris sighs and holds out his hand. “Peter.”

Peter swivels around. The light slants across the bottom half of his face, softening the harsh angles and thin lips. He’s silent and still, waiting for Chris’s word.

“You can—do you want to stay here?” Chris rushes to add, “With me. Tonight.”

Peter doesn’t speak. He swallows, throat visibly working, as though he’s forcing something down. Finally his lips part. He shakes his head. “You do remember that I’m naked.”

“Yeah, well.” Chris shrugs. He sits up just enough to pull off his t-shirt and wriggle out of his jeans. “I’m in my underwear.”

A thin ring of blue flares up in Peter’s eyes. He douses it almost immediately.

“Should I… do you want me to shift?” Peter sits on the foot of the bed, balancing tentatively on the edge.

How long has it been since Peter Hale has been naked in his bed? Chris’s heart begins to race. His palms sweat. 

He misses Peter so god damn much, and he doesn’t even know why.

Chris slides under the sheets, not looking at the man at the foot of his bed. He thinks, _“I don’t know what I’ll do if you lie beside me as a man. If you’re naked, here and now, I’ll want to touch, and I’m forgetting all the reasons I shouldn’t.”_ The moment stretches on and on. It’s only Peter shrinking away from him that looses his tongue. “Please,” he finally says. “Shifted is better.”

“As you wish,” Peter murmurs.

After a few seconds, a wolf pads to the empty side of the bed and flops down.

This is fine. He’s in control of the situation. This much and no more. Tomorrow night, they’ll go back to normal. Peter will sleep in whatever place he’s staked out, not in Chris’s bed.

_It’s just to help me sleep. I can stop this whenever I want,_ Chris tells himself, aware that he sounds like every other protesting addict.

Slow enough that it takes minutes, Chris edges his fingers across the expanse of bed until dense fur brushes his knuckles. He settles at the contact, relaxing while Peter breathes beside him, deep and regular.

Although it’s been decades, something within him warms at the familiarity. Peter had always fallen asleep first. For all his sly ways, he had been so artlessly vulnerable. He’d trusted Chris despite the way he must have smelled of gun oil and wolfsbane—like a hunter.

His heart twists in his chest, and he finds himself petting Peter, callouses catching on the thick strands, a weird combination of soft and coarse. So what if he drifts off, one hand buried in grey fur, the rest of his body curling around the werewolf? So what if he’s beginning to remember all the reasons he’d ever wanted Peter?

It doesn’t mean forgiveness.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my first attempt at Petopher! I hope you let me know what you thought or if you noticed any typos. There's some heavy content in this fic and generally difficult material, so please let me know you think I should tag something new or differently.
> 
> Updates will be every few days until I run out. My goal is to finish the last few chapters this month, but I don't know if I can make that promise.


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